


Favorite

by convexity



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: AU, Businessman Graves, Establishing Trust, Hand Jobs, M/M, Past Abuse, Praise Kink, Scars, Stablehand Credence becomes secretary Credence, Touch Starved Credence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-18
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-24 18:43:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14361372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convexity/pseuds/convexity
Summary: “You’re clearly my favorite, Credence. Everyone knows it. ”“Everyone?” He ventured, trying not to look visibly pleased.





	1. Chapter 1

Credence had started his job at Grave’s mannor in the stables. He liked working with the horses, the smell of their warm bodies and the hearth-warmed leather tack, fresh pitched hay. He warmed his hands by placing them on their velvet noses, feeling their lips twitch looking for a cube of sugar, delighting in the steam of their puffing breaths.

His lodgings had been cold and a litte cramped, but his cot was no less uncomfortable than the one at the church. In the stable, at least, no one cared if he said his prayers, if he came in late or if his shirt was untucked. No one bothered him at all.

One of the horses in the wing he was responisble for was none other than the Masters palomino mare, Medea, whom he rode for sport in the hunting trails behind the outbuildings of the family estate. Percival Graves would bring the mare back to the stalls chomping her bit, sides heaving, frothy sweat darkening her golden flanks and neck.

“Take good care of her.” He’d say as he passed Credence the reins without a glance. Credence kept his eyes down, mumbled a polite ‘yes sir’ and soothed Medea by placing a palm on her hot neck while Mr Graves turned and strode out of the stable, leather riding crop tucked under his arm.

Graves intimidated Credence, both because he was the master of the house and grounds on which Credence worked and because of his impressive, aloof air. Men who dressed and looked like that often had been cruel to Credence on the streets of New York, gruff or downright mean as he tried to pass out fliers for the church.

Probably forty, Graves was a bachelor from an old, wealthy family. After inheriting this particualr property he employed servants, cooks, stablehands and a driver. Credence didn’t have much contact with Graves, and from what little he heard other hands say the man was a bit of an enigma, anyway. People seemed to know more about Grave’s parents and extended family than the man who employed them directly. Credence simply hoped never to step on his toes and lose his job, wind up back at the church. 

It wasn’t until one afternoon when a serving girl was on leave to tend her new babe and the house staff was woefully short that Credence actually met his employer. Graves was entertaining colleagues, and they required dinner service. Credence tried to keep his hands from shaking as he served red wine out of a bottle whose foreign label he couldn’t read, cleared dishes and lit the men’s cigarettes. Grave’s three dinner guests, men of similar age and dress but who seemed somehow cruder than Graves would snap for him with their fingers, nearly knocking into him with a wide hand gesture or a raucous schoolboy laugh. Graves was quieter, leaning back at the head of his table, made eye contact with Credence whenever he wanted his glass topped off or a plate cleared.

When he thought he could retire to the stables to check the blankets on the horses and break the ice in their water buckets, Graves spoke to him directly. The others had finally left, leaving Credence alone with his boss.

“Boy,” Graves addressed him, a little curiosty in his dark eyes.

“Sir.” Credence said, bowing his head and clasping his hands, always unsure of what to do with them in his boss’s presense.

“I hope you don’t think me rude, but I don’t know your name.”

“Credence, Sir. Credence Barebone.”

“Ah,” Graves snapped his fingers. “That’s right. My new stablehand.. you replaced Jonah. Credence, are you literate?”

“Yes, sir.” Credence said, relieved that he could say so.

Graves thought for a moment, crossed one leg over the other. “How would you like a change of position? I need a new secretary. Just some paperwork, correspondence, booking my meeting schedules… “ Graves spread his broad hands wide, offer on the imaginary table.

Credence’s heart was pounding. He was afraid the man could hear it from across the room. The thought terrified him. A secretary job, where he was in charge of Grave's busy and presumably important schedule, making sure everything went smoothly? There was a margin for error much different than with the horses… And he would be in such close proximity to Mr Graves…  But he didn’t dare tell his employer no. It was a generous offer.

Seeing Credence squirm, Graves added, “You would get a pay increase, of course, which can be negotiated later on, with plenty of room for a raise. You’d sleep in the house instead of the stables, take most meals with me, work every weekday in the city. I’d provide you new clothes…” Graves trailed off, watching him with patient interest.

“Sir, I… yes. I'm honored. Thank you, sir. For the opportunity.”

“Please, call me Mr Graves.”  By way of sealing the deal he stood and shook Credence’s hand. He was surprisingly gentle, cupping Credence’s hand with his right and closing over the back of it with his left.

***

In a months time Credence knew the ins and outs of his work as Grave’s personal secretary. They went into the city every morning in Henry Ford’s latest, a sleek Model A. They sat in the back, a partition giving them privacy from the driver who Graves called Mac and always asked after his children as they got in. Credence had his own workspace in Grave’s spacious office, a small desk and room for papers, a chair, rug, a little houseplant he watered lovingly.

He knew how Graves took his coffee and when, was encouraged to get himself anything he liked on these excursions, coffee or tea. When Graves didn’t have lunch with his colleagues or clients he would take Credence out with him to a little sandwich place, order for them both, deli ham and melted swiss on slabs of warm rye or pumpernickel. On these lunches Credence felt like they were the only two people in the whole world. Graves talked to him like a friend, told him sensitive things about his business or the entaglements of clients with the preface 'just between us,' or 'I know you won't repeat this,'...Credence warmed at the trust placed in him, the faith. It stirred his pride, made him fiercely loyal.

The first day of spring was unseasonably warm. _Indian Summer,_ someone had called it skeptically. Credence was enjoying the fresh air from the open window after the confinement of a long winter. He shucked off his sweater, rolled his white undershirt to his elbows as he often saw Graves do in the privacy of their shared office, trying not to stare at his sinewy arms or his hand on a glass of whiskey as he worked a late night, everyone gone home but he and his secretary. Credence had fallen asleep curled in the corner armchair numerous times on these late nights, woken by Grave’s gentle hand on his shoulder, holding his coat for him. “Time to go home, love.”

This balmy afternoon Credence sat at his desk with his feet folded under him, pouring over a contract that Grave’s wanted looked over for any errors or inconsistencies. He didn’t notice his boss behind him until he felt Grave’s hand on his shoulder. Habit made him jump a little.

“Mr Graves,” He breathed his surprise.

“Who did this to you?” Graves asked him, tugging his thin white shirt to the side a little at the nape of his neck. Credence recoiled at the urgency in Grave’s voice. He knew his pink and silver scars from the church ran un ugly criss crosses all over his back and thighs, a topographical map of pain. He’d forgoten about them in his concentration on the paperwork at hand and the feel of fresh air. Careless. Graves had never seen him in warm weather clothes, anything that revealed any skin. Now he was touching him, fingers dipping into his cotton collar. Credence swallowed, the world reduced to the point of contact. He sucked in a breath. The words on the pages began to swim. Graves traced a scar with the pad of his pointer finger, measuring for severity and age. The ones on his thighs were worse, fresher and pinker. He tried not to imagine the rapturous shame of Grave’s fingers on those, examining him like a pinned butterfly. Credence remained silent, still.

“Did any of this happen since you were with me, Credence?”

Credence shook his head. “No, Mr Graves. They’re all from before.” A huff from above him told Credence Graves wasn’t completely satisfied.

“If anyone ever hurt you, you’d tell me, right?” Graves said softly, his hand going to the base of Credence’s neck and squeezing gently. “If anyone ever bothered you?”

Credence closed his eyes at the contact, something he craved from Graves constantly but seldom received. Graves was freer with his praise than physcial contact, and Credence was happy to bask in that when it was awarded to him. “Yes Sir.” Credence promised. “I would tell you.”

 _If anyone ever hurts me.. Too late for that…_ Where would he begin? Yet he felt Grave’s protectiveness like a blanket on a freezing night, grasped at it in his mind.

“Good.” To his bewilderment Graves reached under Credence’s chin, stroked him like a beloved cat. “Coz I’d fuckin’ kill em.”

Credence almost choked at the blunt language, so unlike his cooly composed boss.

“What, think I’m above playing favorites?”

“Favorites?”

“Yeah. You’re clearly my favorite, Credence, c'mon. Everybody knows it. ”

Credence felt his face go hot. Even with the teasing tone, there was absolute seriousness behind it. He looked up at Graves through his lashes. “Everyone?” He ventured, trying not to look visibly pleased.

Graves moved his hand to Credence’s cheek, let his palm rest flat on the boy’s angular jawline. Credence leaned into the touch, unafraid and tingling. “Yeah,” Graves smiled. “I wont even deny it. Why do you think you went from stablehand to my personal assistant after one dinner?”

“Coz I’m your favorite?” He replied coyly. Graves traced his thumb along Credence’s lower lip, huffing a soft breath of pleased laughter. Credence’s heart raced.

“That’s right,” he whispered. “My good boy.”

Credence must’ve visibly shuddered at that particular endearment, because Graves slowly retracted his hand from Credence’s face. He took a small step back. Had Graves mistaken Credence's barely controlled rapture for discomfort, or fear?

“God, look at me.” He laughed a little bitterly and ran a hand through his hair, the gesture making him seem so startlingly _normal_ and Credence realized how much he worshipped Graves, thought of him above other men. 

“It's not my intention to make you uncomfortable, Credence.”

“You’re not, Sir. _Mr Graves._ ” Credence rushed to reply. _You're not,_ he thought woefully, hoping it wasn’t an isolated incident. If seeing his scars elicited this respsonse from Mr Graves he would strip naked right there, bare every single one.

“I just want you to know you’re safe now.” Graves shrugged.

“I feel safe.” Credence assured, not knowing how to let Graves know how he felt. “I feel safe with you. I do.”

Graves searched Credence's face, finding nothing but desperate sincerity. _Touch me again. Do that again,_ he longed to say.

“Good. Listen when you’re done that report let’s hunt down some gelato, yes? I haven’t indulged in ages.” Graves suggested, giving Credence’s dark hair a final tender stroke as he headed back to his own desk.

Credence bent to the task, wondering how he was ever going to find the will to focus.


	2. Chapter 2

Graves never mentioned the scars again after that afternoon. As the spring warmed and they left the windows in the office open more, Credence felt at ease leaving his sweaters and waistcoats off, even if his loose collar showed his scars like lighting strikes on his skin. He felt an instinct to hide them from everyone else, but not Mr. Graves. In fact, he got a little thrill from how careless he could be about baring them. He found himself doing it on purpose, finding pleasure in the fact that he didn’t have to hide his skin, his past. Grave’s knew. Graves had seen it already, touched them without disgust.

One sunny city morning on his way to get two matching coffees he caught his reflection in a shop window. It stopped him. He turned to the glass, looking objectively at himself for the first time in a long time. His hair had grown out. It was dark and wavy around his ears, made his face look less severe, less drawn. He stood taller- his shoulders didn’t try to cave in on themselves, his head wasn’t constantly bowed. His clothes were finer than anything he’d ever owned, a constantly growing collection courtesy of his boss, who insisted Credence have soft, well-tailored things from the same shops his own clothes came from.

He turned his head experimentally, glancing sidelong at his profile. If anyone in the shop had stopped to watch the boy outside they would think him some fatcat’s son, stopped to preen in his reflection, one of the nouveau riche that tore down 5th avenue in sleek automobiles like aristocracy. They wouldn’t recognize the boy from a year ago either, hungry and wretched, on the street in pants and shoes he grew out of the year before.

Graves hadn’t touched him again like that day, not even when Credence tried to make himself readily available. He would stand as close as possible to Graves when they waited to be seated in the lobby of a busy restaurant, pretending in his most private of thoughts that he was Grave’s kept boy, that everybody knew it.

When Graves called him to his desk to look at some paperwork or another he would get uneccessarily close, so close it seemed as if he might at any moment just slide into the mans lap. He thought about how it would feel to have those powerful arms around him, those capable hands touching him. That always made Credence hard, and he’d have to force himself to stop thinking about it, bite the same spot on the inside of his cheek until it bled.

Credence didn’t mind horribly when Graves said he was going to stay late that night. It wasn’t bad in the summer. In the winter he’d dreaded dozing cozily in the office armchair, warm under a blanket Graves had spread over him, and then having to go out into the snowy cold, blinking sleepily thorugh the long ride back home.

Now, the nights were balmy, living things. The city at night was intoxicating, filled with artificial light and teeming with sounds and smells, alive as any day. Credence would watch the men in their black hats and the women in their shimmering dresses from the window of Grave’s Ford as they headed home to the mannor in the country, where all was asleep except for the sweet chirping of crickets, the gulping of bullfrogs in the pond, a million stars wheeling overhead.

“I can have Mac take you home and come back for me later, Credence,” Graves offered, not wanting to make his secretary stay late too. “if you’ve got everything on your end done for the week.”

Credence shook his head. “I want to stay, Mr Graves.”

“Do you have work left to do?” He asked, standing up and coming over to Credence’s work space, eyeing the neatly stacked files and schedule book.

“No Sir, it’s all done. I can just read. I’m reading the Count of Monte Cristo.”

Graves gave him a fond smile. “You always have all your work done, don’t you my boy?”

Credence perked up at the endearment. “Yes, Sir.” He said innocently, trying to sound modest.

“I don’t think you’ve ever been late on a single request, come to think of it.” Graves pondered, and Credence longed to feel Grave’s hand in his hair, on his neck. When Graves did reach out it was to tuck a lock of unruly black hair behind Credence’s ear affectionately. Credence nuzzled into the touch without thinking. He dared open his eyes, hoping Grave’s expression hadn’t hardened.

It hadn’t.

Grave’s expression was still fond, but there was something else in his eyes now, something cautiously curious.

“What is it, sweetheart?” He said, voice lowered to nearly a whisper. Concern laced his words, making Credence almost come out of his skin with gratitude, with warmth. He took Grave’s hand into his own, held it more firmly against his cheek, trying wordlessly to convey it was touch he so desperately wanted. His hands trembled. Grave’s tilted his head, dark brows knitting a crease of concern onto his forehead.

“Oh, Credence. Why didn’t you say so? ” He tugged Credence up gently from his desk by his biceps. Credence let himself be pulled into Grave’s chest, feeling the solid warmth, the sureness of it, as Grave’s arms came around him closely. He felt the protectiveness of the embrace, the same protectiveness Graves always extended to him but in physcial form. Credence felt his body lose all tension. He felt almost faint, lost in the sensation of being held.

“Come here,” Graves murmured, even as their bodies were pressed flush against eachother. “Credence.” He whispered tenderly, hand going into the boy’s hair, gently squeezing the nape of his neck.

“You know I'd never deny you anything, don’t you?” 

Credence whined a little hmmph noise into Grave’s shoulder.

“I just don’t ever want to overstep.” He explained in a whisper that made Credence’s skin break out in gooseflesh, a tremor of pleasure running through him at their sudden intimacy.

“You can ask for what you need, Credence. Always. Don’t be afraid. Not of me.” Credence felt the same pleasure building low in his belly that he felt when he’d imagined being Grave’s boy.

Is this what Graves meant? He was afraid that it wasn’t, and the moment Graves realized the nature of what Credence wanted he’d retract in anger. But Graves was holding him so tenderly…. his hand was still moving on his neck, petting and squeezing in turns. He wanted to trust this man so badly, wanted to give himself to him. Had Graves ever given him a reason to mistrust him? Ever done anything but help him?

He whimpered as he made an aborted little motion with his hips for friction. Graves was unphased, holding him even tighter and moving one thigh so that it was tucked between Credence’s, applying pressure to his groin in just the way that he needed. Encouraged, Credence rutted up against Grave’s thigh more insistently, breath catching at the blessed friction. Waves of desire ruled him, hot and demanding.

“Come here, baby.” Graves stopped him, led him by the hand to his desk. Credence’s heart pounded in his ears, his breathing came shallow. Graves pulled his chair from behind his desk and sat down, reaching for Credence and pulling him by his slender waist onto his lap. His coltish legs went sidesaddle over the side of the chair, his arms went loosely around Grave’s neck.

Credence knew they were alone in the building at this hour, but imagined how they might look to someone who walked in unsuspectingly. The thought thrilled him. _His boy._

“Sir?”

“What is it honey?” Grave’s voice was coaxing, indulgent. “What do you need?”

“Please touch me?” He whispered, emboldened by the pet names Graves called him so easily, as if he’d been doing it forever.

“Shhh,” Graves soothed, and began to touch his face, his hair. Gentle, affectionate touches that made Credence want to purr. He closed his eyes, let himself drown in the sensation.

“Do you just want me to touch you like this, or you want more?” Graves asked him.

“Mmm… I…” Credence wanted Graves to do whatever he wanted with him, would have allowed him anything. He took one of Graves hands in his, placed it on his own inner thigh and pushed his hips in a little circle.

“Ah. I thought maybe.” Graves grinned, eyes dark and unreadable. Graves unfastened the front of Credence's pants with one hand and started to palm him over the top of them. Just the foreign sensation of someone else’s hand there was a thrill. The fact that it was Percival Graves, his stoic and formidable boss who for some reason treated him like a princess only doubled Credence’s pleasure. If Graves didn't stop he was going to come in his clothes, just from that preemptive touch alone.

“Is this alright?” Graves asked him, nuzzling his neck. His five o’clock shadow scratched Credence’s skin like sandpaper. He bared more of his neck to Graves in reply, who rumbled an appreciative sound and kissed the skin there with a reverence that no one had ever shown him in his life.

“You want me to touch you?”

Credence could only jerk his head in a nod. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Graves slipped his hand inside Credence’ clothes, wrapped his warm hand around his hard cock. Credence gasped and wrapped his arms tighter around the man’s neck. He wriggled his hips so his pants were around his bottom. Graves pulled Credence’s shirt up to his ribs, exposing his belly and pink cock, his trembling flanks. Graves began to stroke him, impossibly slow at first, letting him acclimate to the sensation.

Credence's head fell back. Graves bent to his exposed neck again, kissing and teasing circles with his tongue. Credence didn’t even hear the noises he was making, wasn’t aware of himself except for the pleasure that consumed him as Graves sped his sure strokes, thumbed over his slit to swipe at the gathering precum there.

“Beautful boy,” Graves whispered to him. “My good boy. I’m gonna take such good care of you. That’s it.”

Credence knew he wasn’t going to last long. It was all too foreign, too new to him, too good.

“Mr Graves? Please... I- I’m gonna..”

“I know. It’s okay, baby. I got you. Come for me.”

Credence came, burying his face in Grave’s neck and balling his fists in his starched white shirt. Hot streaks of cum covered his bare belly and Grave’s hand. Grave’s stroked him through it, murmuring to him softly. When he caught his breath he pulled away from Grave’s neck. His face was hot, flushed.

“Alright?” Graves asked gently.

Credence nodded. “Yes.” Graves tapped him on the thigh and Credence slipped off his lap.

“We can stay late tomorrow night. Lets get you home.”

**Author's Note:**

> [say hi on tumblr!](http://bastardgirls.tumblr.com)


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